


outlast the ignorance

by firefall



Series: Say A Prayer 'Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Ambiguous Relationships, Best Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Classism, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Gen, Great Depression, Honestly This Is 6k of Stiles Loving Scott, M/M, McCall Family Feels, Minor Character Death, Poverty, Running Away, Which Is What Scott Deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 18:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefall/pseuds/firefall
Summary: They sit there for almost twenty minutes, shaking in each other’s arms.  Once Scott’s cried himself out, Stiles pulls away just enough to take Scott’s face in his hands and look deeply into his wet, red-rimmed eyes.  “Let’s leave,” he says, voice quiet but decisive.  “Let’s just get out of here.”Missing scene/prequel for "Say A Prayer For The Broken Bones": Scott and Stiles' journey to California. 1930's AU.





	outlast the ignorance

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I wouldn't call this a full prequel...more like an extended missing scene that happened pre-story. Which might be the same thing. No one tell me if it is. 
> 
> You'll definitely want to read Say A Prayer first, because it makes the most sense that way.
> 
> Warnings: some swearing, classism, blood and injury, loads of self-loathing, and the death of a minor character (if you've read Say A Prayer, you can probably figure out who it is).
> 
> Title is yet again from "Carry On" by 5 Seconds of Summer.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf. All characters belong to Jeff Davis and MTV and the devil.

Melissa bakes a cake for Stiles’ twentieth birthday.

She brings it out with a smile and a single candle standing proudly in the center, flicking the kitchen lights off as she sets it before him.  “Make a wish, kiddo,” she says, dropping a kiss to the top of his head.  “Make it a good one!”

Stiles can’t help but stare at her in a mixture of surprise and wonder.  “Come on, Mel, you didn’t have to do this!” he says, cheeks heating the tiniest bit at finding himself the center of attention.  Scott and Raf are watching him from across the table, grinning and looking characteristically uninterested, respectively.  “How the hell did you pay for this?”

Because, the thing is, Stiles _knows_ how poor they are.  They’re luckier than others – when the police force fired their first wave of employees, Raf miraculously wasn’t on the list – but Melissa’s been out of a job for almost three years now and Scott and Stiles haven’t been able to find work since high school.  Main Street, running straight down the middle of their tiny village, is a ghost town, businesses empty and boarded up like some of kind of shrine to the Depression.  Stiles and the McCalls have eaten nothing but beans and rice for months.

But now there’s a birthday cake in front of him and Melissa looks happy, the flickering light of the candle smoothing the exhausted lines of her face.  “That’s for me to know and you not to worry about,” she tells him firmly.  “Now make a wish before the candle melts.”

So Stiles closes his eyes and blows out the candle and Scott cheers.

There are no birthday gifts, not that Stiles wanted or expected there to be.  Once dinner’s over, they tune the radio to the only channel still broadcasting in their area, Scott and Stiles sprawled across the living room rug as Melissa sews up the holes in Raf’s socks with steady fingers.  It’s a baseball game tonight and it’s only the bottom of the sixth. 

Raf’s nowhere to be seen, but that’s nothing new.  Stiles would never say it out loud, but he thinks Melissa only stays with him for Scott’s sake.  She needs his paycheck and her son needs a father.

It’s a good birthday, either way.  Melissa goes to bed before the game is over, easily hauling Scott and Stiles to their feet long enough to hug them goodnight.  She calls Stiles “sweetheart” and pats him on the cheek and it’s not exactly like having a mother, but it’s the next best thing.  He swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

That’s the last time they hug Melissa.

They come for her the next morning, kicking the door straight off its hinges.  By the time Scott and Stiles get their bearings, rubbing the sleepy confusion from their eyes and slipping across the wood floors in their stocking feet, the cops have her pinned to the ground in the front yard, clamping her wrists and ankles in heavy duty irons.

Melissa fights back as hard as she can, roaring around a mouthful of fangs and digging her claws into whatever flesh she can get her hands on.  She’s terrifying like this, dangerous in a way Stiles has never associated with her.  It takes six grown men to hold her.

Scott races to his mother’s side in a fit of fury and terror, grabbing officers by the shoulders and throwing them to the ground like they’re made of paper.  It almost seems like Scott might be able to save her, but just as Stiles sends the closest guy sprawling with a right hook to the gut, the air fills with a chorus of metallic clicks.

When Stiles looks up, there are four sniper rifles aimed straight at Scott.

Melissa notices Scott’s claws the same time Stiles does.  Her body goes limp, not like she’s tired, but like she’s resigning herself to her fate.  “Baby,” she pleads with her son, letting the red drain from her eyes and the wolf melt away from her skin.  “Baby, you need to calm down.  Please, Scott— _please_.”

Scott curls his hands into fists and takes a step toward her.  The firing squad moves in, weapons at the ready.

“Stop!” Melissa cries, all fight replaced with fear for Scott’s life.  “Don’t kill him!”  Her gaze flits to Stiles in a panic, glittering with tears.  “Stiles, don’t let him get hurt!  You need to protect him, you hear me?  Make him calm down…please, Stiles!”

 _Don’t let him shift_.  Stiles can hear it written into the desperation of Melissa’s voice and, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins and telling him to fight, to hurt, to attack, he knows she’s right.  If Scott shifts, it’ll all be over.  He’ll be dead within seconds and that’s not a sacrifice Stiles is willing to make.

So, his hands raised in the air to avoid a chest full of bullets, Stiles slowly comes around to stand before Scott, putting himself between his best friend and the drawn guns.  “She’s right,” is all he says, wrapping his arms around Scott’s trembling body.  “You need to live.”

Scott breaks and Melissa lets herself be hauled away.

As the police throw Melissa into the back of the car, Scott screams wordlessly into Stiles’ shirt, the sound burrowing into Stiles’ chest like an open wound.  Then they hear Melissa give a single, broken shout of “Raf!” and their bodies go rigid.  Stiles knows without looking that Scott’s father isn’t going to save his wife.  He puts more stock in the badge on his chest than his own damn family.

He doesn’t sell Scott out, though, just leaves his son to scream himself hoarse.  The gunmen don’t stand down until the police car is long gone.

_-_-_-_

 

That night, Scott and Stiles dump Raf’s belongings in the driveway – all his clothes, all his books, all his pictures.  They think about keeping his money, but Scott wrinkles his nose and impulsively tosses that outside, too. 

“I don’t want his cop money,” he spits, voice raspy and painful.  “He can have it.”

His stuff is gone when they wake up in the morning.

_-_-_-_

 

It bemuses Stiles that their town couldn’t keep the diner, doctor’s office, and library from going under, but the jailhouse still stands strong as ever.  The sturdy brick building is buzzing with activity, police cars peeling out with their lights flashing and sirens blaring every few minutes, probably off to round up more innocent mothers or little children.

Scott must be thinking the same thing, because he’s shaking next to Stiles where they’re crouched in the bushes, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.  Stiles can’t tell whether he’s angry or heartbroken.

Probably a little bit of both.

“Let’s go,” Scott finally hisses once the last car in the lot has disappeared down Main Street.  Then he scrambles across the empty gravel alleyway and drops to his knees beneath one of the police station windows, pressing his ear up against the brick.  He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to focus his hearing.

“Anything?” Stiles asks after a while, his eyes nervously scanning the area to make sure no one’s coming.  The last thing they need is another fight – they barely got out of the last one alive.  “At all?”

“Lots of heartbeats,” Scott says.  “Most of them are really fast, like they’re scared.”  Then his eyes open, sad and brown.  “There are a bunch of voices, but not hers.”

“What about her scent?  Can you catch it?”

Scott nods, face set with determination.  “I can try.”

He does catch it, but it doesn’t lead him into the jailhouse – it leads him to the edge of the village where it abruptly dissipates.  Scott stops in his tracks and Stiles nearly walks into his back.  “They took her out of town,” Scott whispers brokenly.  He’s hugging himself around the waist like he’s trying to hold himself together.  “She’s gone, Stiles.”

Stiles’ stomach hurts.  “So there’s really nothing?”

“Nothing.”  Scott’s eyes are brimming with tears and he rubs at them in annoyance.  “Not a trace.”

“How about we look a little longer, yeah?” Stiles suggests for lack of a better idea.  “Maybe you’ll find it again.”

But Scott shakes his head, tears finally spilling over.  “I just wanna go home,” he says and it’s half wail, half plea.  “Can we please just go home, Stiles?”

Heart in his throat, Stiles pulls his best friend in until he’s tucked against his chest.  Stiles thought he knew what hatred was before – he’s never been the most amiable, forgiving person – but having Scott crying in his arms yet again has Stiles trembling with a red-hot fury he’s never felt before.  He wants to march down to the police station and pistol whip every man there, starting with Scott’s father.  But that’s not what Scott needs right now, so Stiles forces his voice to stay steady as he whispers into Scott’s hair, “Yeah, buddy.  We can go home.”  Then, “She’ll come back to you.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” Scott mumbles and Stiles doesn’t answer.

_-_-_-_

 

Scott rips a hole in his shirt with his claws.

At the shocked whimper, Stiles looks up from his breakfast to see Scott standing in the doorway of their bedroom, staring forlornly down at the tattered fabric in his hands.  His face is scrunched up like he’s trying not to burst into tears.

“You okay?” Stiles asks quietly, carefully.  The house has been strangely hushed the last three days – they’ve been walking around on silent feet and speaking barely above a whisper.  They feel Melissa’s absence like some kind of pressure, heavy and oppressive as it pushes down on their exhausted shoulders.  The radio hasn’t been on since Stiles’ birthday.

“I ruined my damn shirt,” Scott says, balling it up and tossing it to the floor with a low growl.  “I haven’t torn something since I was a little kid.”

Setting aside his bowl of rice, Stiles gets up to stand before Scott, taking him gently by the wrists.  Scott’s claws are still out, glinting dangerously in the light from the window.  “She was your anchor,” Stiles says and it’s not a question, not really.  “Wasn’t she?”

Scott looks away.  “One of them.”

It makes Stiles’ heart clench.  He doesn’t ask Scott to explain – he doesn’t need to.  “Let me help you,” he whispers, lacing his fingers with Scott’s and bringing their joined hands up to hold them against his chest.  “You can do it, Scotty.  Listen to my heartbeat.”

Scott closes his eyes and breathes as evenly as he can, face written with concentration.  When he opens them again they’re flickering from brown to gold and back, but his claws are gone.  Stiles smiles sadly at him and ruffles his wild hair.

“There you go.”

Stiles gets used to seeing a tint of gold in Scott’s eyes.  Control is hard without his mother, without his alpha, but Scott’s had Stiles since they were babies and the aching, soul-deep connection between them is enough to keep him from wolfing out completely.  It’s just his eyes that give him trouble. 

It’s fine until it’s not.

It’s fine until they’re standing side by side in the bathroom brushing their teeth and Scott’s eyes flicker red in the mirror.  Stiles’ toothbrush falls out of his mouth.

“Oh, Scott—oh, Scotty!” he says raggedly, turning to his best friend with panic in his throat and a churning sickness in his belly.  “Scott, your—!”

Scott is confused.  “What?”

“Your _eyes_ ,” Stiles whispers miserably.  “Look at them.”

Sick, wretched understanding seeps into Scott’s face and he crumbles to the floor in a heap, practically choking on the sobs that get stuck in his throat.  Stiles just holds him through it, arms clamped tightly around his shoulders and Scott’s name falling painfully from his lips like it’s the only word he knows. 

“Scott,” he whispers, barely a breath.  Over and over again.  “ _Scott_.”

They sit there for almost twenty minutes, shaking in each other’s arms.  Once Scott’s cried himself out, Stiles pulls away just enough to take Scott’s face in his hands and look deeply into his wet, red-rimmed eyes.  “Let’s leave,” he says, voice quiet but decisive.  “Let’s just get out of here.”

Scott shudders, but doesn’t protest.  “Where would we go?”  His voice is wrecked and it makes Stiles’ face crumble in sympathy.  He strokes his thumb softly over Scott’s cheek.

“I hear there are jobs in California,” Stiles says and the thought causes the tiniest flicker of hope to burn in his chest.  Back before the town’s newspaper shut down, there had been headlines almost every day about the goldmine of opportunities on the west coast.  It’s hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, but if it gets them out of their dying town and away from the ghosts of everything – and _everyone_ – they’ve lost, Stiles thinks it’s worth it.  “ _Good_ jobs.  The kind you could get before the Depression.”

Scott sniffs hard, right in Stiles’ face.  It makes Stiles smile despite himself.  “Okay,” his best friend agrees, nodding tiredly.  He looks like he’s given up.  “Okay.” 

“Okay.  We’ll pack up tomorrow and go.”

Stiles sleeps in Scott’s bed that night, the good one with the real mattress.  It’s a tight fit – they’re not exactly kids anymore – but they make it work, curling around each other like wolves in a den.  There’s a heavy weight on Stiles’ chest as he lies there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, bisected by streams of moonlight.  It’s hard to breathe.

“You’re allowed to be sad, too, you know,” Scott whispers after a while, finding Stiles’ hand beneath the quilt and giving it a gentle squeeze.  “I know you loved her.”

“I did,” Stiles says simply and hot tears drip from the corners of his eyes and into his hair until he can breathe again.

_-_-_-_

 

They get up with the sun, fill their knapsacks with their worn out clothes and the last of the food in the cupboards, and quietly close the front door behind them for the very last time.  The _click_ of the latch is loud even to Stiles’ human ears.  It sounds like finality.

Miss Ito is working in her garden next door, carefully cutting big, round tomatoes from their stems with scissors.  When she sees them, she straightens up and offers them a sad smile.  “I wondered how long you’d stay,” she says softly, eyes full of sorrow.  “It’s a crime what they did to your mother.”

Scott is in no position to answer – he hasn’t said a word all morning – so Stiles just ducks his head gratefully at her and says, “We’re heading west.  California.”

Miss Ito nods like she understands.  “You boys be safe, okay?”  Then she holds out her basket of tomatoes.  “Why don’t you take these?  It’s a long journey.”

That finally brings Scott’s mouth to life.  “Oh no, Satomi, we couldn’t,” he says, shaking his head rapidly and holding up his hands, palms out like he’s pleading with her to think about her own livelihood.  “We can’t take your food!”

But Miss Ito just clucks her tongue at them.  “An old woman like me?  I’ll be fine.”

When she’s done filling the basket, they have a bunch of tomatoes, two zucchinis, and a head of lettuce.  They try to convince her to keep some of it, but all it takes is an unimpressed raise of her eyebrow and they snap their mouths shut.  If a seventy-year-old woman wants to help them, it’s probably best to let her.

All the same, Scott asks wearily, voice nearly a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”  He sounds suspicious, mistrustful, and it’s strange coming from Scott, like the world’s gone all backwards and upside down.  Scott’s never been a skeptic – that’s more Stiles’ thing – but he’s also never had his mother ripped from his arms and then brutally murdered before, either, so Stiles figures it’s understandable.  It’s hard to know who to trust.

Miss Ito is unbothered by the question.  “Because you shouldn’t have to suffer for the sins of your father,” she says, patting Scott on the shoulder with one gnarled hand before marching up the gravel drive to her front door.  She turns to look at them before going inside, her eyes going suddenly and distinctly red before she disappears.

Scott and Stiles turn to stare at each other.

“She’s a—”  Stiles stops, awed.

“Yeah.” 

Scott slings the basket of vegetables over his shoulder and then they set out, feet kicking up dust behind them.

_-_-_-_

 

“Too bad we had to sell the car,” Scott says some hours later as they trudge along the side of the dirt road, the hot August sun beating down on their heads and making the terrain look shimmery.  Stiles can feel his scalp burning, so he stops long enough to pull an extra shirt from his pack and drape it over his head.  It’s so _hot_.  “We could be there in two days.”

“Couldn’t pay to fuel up, though,” Stiles points out, swiping the sweat out of his eyes in annoyance.  They’re stinging.  “We’ve got, like, a dollar between us.”

“If that.”  Scott stoops to pick up a rock and then chucks it at a fencepost.  It perfectly ricochets off a tiny nail that’s protruding from the wood.  Damn werewolf aim.  “We’re flat broke.”

“California will be better,” Stiles promises even though he doesn’t know if it’s true.  He _hopes_ it’s true.  If he finds out that he dragged Scott from the only home he’s ever known for no reason, Stiles won’t be able to live with himself.  Letting himself down is one thing, letting Scott down?  That’s another altogether.

Despite the heat, he throws an arm around Scott’s shoulders long enough to give him a squeeze.  No one’s more important than Scott.

They end up hitching a ride with a farmer who’s selling hay a few towns over.  “You’re welcome to crash in the back if you want,” he offers kindly, his old, weathered face wrinkling as he smiles.  “Just don’t ruin my bales.”

Always his mother’s son, Scott nods seriously and promises, “We’ll be really careful, sir.”  Then he jumps into the wagon and reaches back to give Stiles a hand.

It’s a relief to rest their feet for a while and the pair of horses travels fast enough to kick up a slight breeze, cooling the sweat dripping down Stiles’ face and neck.  It almost makes up for the way the hay makes him sneeze, his eyes itching and nose running uncontrollably.  He tries to make do, but soon his shirtsleeves are covered in snot.  It’s really gross.

“Are you okay?” Scott finally asks, rubbing Stiles’ back as he sneezes four times in a row.  “Are you sick?”

It makes Stiles laugh, the sound wheezing out of his clogged throat.  “Allergies,” he says, waving away Scott’s concern.  “It’s pesky human stuff.  I’ll be okay.”

“Sometimes you worry me,” Scott says quietly and Stiles knows he means _humans_.  Sometimes humans worry Stiles, too.

Scott keeps rubbing his back.

By the time they reach the farmer’s destination, Stiles’ eyes burn so badly he can barely keep them open.  But they’re twenty-three miles closer to California than they would have been, so he doesn’t complain, just offers the old man one of their zucchinis as payment.  He shakes Stiles’ hand instead, putting the food back into their basket.

“You need it more than I do,” the farmer says, turning to shake Scott’s hand, too.  “This is bad times and we’ve got to look out for each other.”

“Sure do,” Stiles agrees and they part ways.

Once the sun goes down, they set up camp just inside the tree line, spreading a blanket across the forest floor.  Scott seems to be lost somewhere in his own head, eating their meager dinner of vegetables and crackers almost mechanically.  He doesn’t say a word, staring off at nothing as the moon rises behind him.  Stiles’ stomach is tight with worry.

He waits until Scott’s dinner is gone to reach over and tap his best friend in the middle of the forehead.  “What’s going on in there?” he wonders, tone gentle.  “And don’t say _nothing_ , because it’s obviously not nothing.”

The sigh that falls from Scott’s lips is bigger than he is.  “People keep helping us!” he bursts out like he just can’t hold it back any longer.  Stiles flinches in surprise – he can’t help it – but he nods so Scott knows that it’s okay, that he’s listening.  If anyone deserves to scream into the empty woods about anything he wants, it’s Scott.  “They just keep—they’re so _nice_!  And I can’t help but wonder if they’d be so kind if they knew—”  Scott hesitates, looking up at Stiles with eyes huge and full of pain.  “—what I am.”

Stiles swallows hard.  “And what’s that?”

“A monster,” Scott says simply.  He sounds miserable.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles scolds him, blood going hot with fury.  He’s not mad at Scott, though – never at Scott.  “Just _don’t_ , Scott.”

Scott waves him away, like a reminder that he’s good and right and lovely is too much to take at the moment.  He’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide and Stiles loves it and hates it in equal parts.  “I know they didn’t kill my mother,” he goes on, shoulders slumped, “but people like them did and every time I look at them, I’m just…scared.  Scared and really, really angry.”  He flops back on the blanket to stare up at the stars peeking through the tree branches overhead and when he speaks, his voice is full of desperation.  “I don’t wanna be like this, Stiles!  I don’t wanna stop trusting people, trusting _humans_ …I wanna believe there are good ones out there, you know?  Good ones like you.”

Stomach swooping, Stiles crawls across the blanket to lie next to Scott, slinging an arm across his belly.  “Maybe there are,” Stiles offers despite the doubt that echoes in the back of his mind.  It sounds like gunshots and clanking chains and Melissa pleading for her son to be spared.  “Somewhere.”

“Not as many as there should be,” Scott says decisively and Stiles kisses his shoulder.

Then, because it’s been bothering him all day, Stiles asks into the darkness, “Why didn’t we know Satomi was a wolf?  Shouldn’t you have been able to smell her?”

“Some wolves know how to mask their scents,” Scott says, drumming his fingers absently against Stiles’ wrist that’s still resting on his stomach.  It’s comforting and Stiles lets his eyes fall closed.  “She must’ve been hiding it my entire life, because I had no idea.”

“She was probably afraid,” Stiles says sleepily.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees.  “Probably.”

_-_-_-_

 

“They don’t get to change me,” Scott says the next morning as they fill their packs again, preparing for another long day of walking.  “They don’t get to decide who I am and what I believe… _I_ do.  And I believe people are more good than bad.  Even still.”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Stiles whispers and he means it with all of his heart.

_-_-_-_

 

They must look a pathetic sight – clothes dirty, faces red with heat, and bodies much too skinny for grown men – because they don’t even have to stick their thumbs out before cars and trucks and wagons slow down beside them and ask if they need a ride.  They travel this way for days, the miles disappearing underfoot as they bounce from city to city, westward.  Always westward. 

They’re lucky and Stiles is grateful.

Grateful or not, Stiles is still wary when a shiny Cadillac comes to a stop next to them, passenger-side window slowly rolling down to reveal a woman in an extravagant hat and a pristine white dress.  She gives them a friendly smile even as the man in the driver’s seat, presumably her husband, scowls darkly in their general direction.  It makes Stiles nervous.

“Where are you boys heading?” the woman asks, tone light and welcoming.  “We’re on our way to see my mother about forty miles west of here and would be quite alright with company if it’d help you out.”

Her husband mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _speak for yourself_.  The rosy pink that rises on Scott’s face tells Stiles that he probably heard correctly.  They look at each other uneasily.

“We wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Scott finally says, fingers nervously picking at the seams of his dusty pants.  Stiles can’t help but mirror him.  He knows exactly how they look standing next to an expensive car full of people with clean teeth and immaculate clothes.  Scott and Stiles look filthy and unkempt and _poor_ by comparison. 

It’s the first time Stiles has ever felt ashamed of that.

But the woman is kind despite her riches and she waves away their concern.  “It’s not a bother at all,” she promises.  “Hop in and let’s see about helping you out, yeah?”

The opportunity to travel so far in a day manages to eclipse their misgivings and soon Scott and Stiles are climbing into the backseat, avoiding the man’s disdainful gaze.  His eyes feel like fire on Stiles’ skin and he finds himself perching anxiously on the edge of the tan leather seats, afraid to get anything dirty.  Scott follows suit and together they settle in for an uncomfortable journey, bodies rigid and wrung tight.

Clearly uninterested in holding a conversation with them, the man presses a button on the dashboard that fills the car with quiet jazz music, pouring from speakers down at their feet.  Stiles turns to stare at Scott in amazement – they’ve never been in a car with a radio before.  It’s a heady feeling, watching the dusty countryside whiz by as Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background.  It’s like watching a movie at the cinema.

That is, until they enter a small, rundown town quite similar to the one Scott and Stiles came from and the landscape turns into a sea of FORECLOSED signs and gaunt, exhausted faces.  Entire families are huddled on sidewalks and in empty alleyways, elderly people perched among what’s left of their belongings as little children play with rocks and sticks in the dirt.  Every time the car stops at an intersection, another trembling, desperate person will approach with the tiniest shred of hope etched into their face.

The man speeds away every time.

Stiles gets sicker and sicker with every flippant disregard for hurting, aching humanity and soon it’s just too much, tears pricking at his eyes.  Scott isn’t doing much better – his face is buried in his hands and his shoulders are shaking.  It’s only a matter of time before he starts crying audibly.

They shouldn’t be in this car.  Stiles doesn’t want help if people worse off than them are refused it. 

“Let us out here,” Stiles says shakily, eyes swimming as he watches a little boy run up to the Cadillac with a tin cup held out.  “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

The woman turns around in her seat to look at him.  “Are you sure?  We’ve still got almost twenty miles to go.”

“We’ll walk,” Scott repeats firmly, reaching for the door handle.  “Thank you.”

It’s no skin off her husband’s nose – he’s probably thrilled to be rid of them and their dirty shoes – so he comes to a stop immediately and lets them out.  The woman compassionately drops a few coins into the little boy’s cup before they drive away.  Stiles thinks she should have married someone better. 

Scott gives what’s left of their money – a whopping eighty-three cents – to a family of six that are living beneath the awning of an abandoned general store.  The mother thanks them profusely with tears in her eyes as the father carefully pockets the pennies like they’re pure gold.  One of the little kids hugs Stiles around the knees.

They don’t discuss it.  They don’t have to.

_-_-_-_

 

They strip their clothes off in Nevada to wash in the pouring rain.  It’s nearing midnight and the woods are pitch black, though Stiles can see Scott’s eyes glowing red and gut-wrenching in the dark.  It’s the first time Scott’s let himself shift since his mother passed.

Stiles tilts his head heavenward, letting the rainwater run over his dirty, sunburned face.  He closes his eyes.  The rain is loud but he knows Scott can hear him, so he whispers into the night, “Does it feel different?  Being an alpha?”

Scott’s voice shakes.  “Yeah.”

“Good different or bad different?”

Scott thinks about it for a while, bright eyes getting closer as he approaches.  He lists forward to press his forehead to Stiles’ bare shoulder.  His hair drips water down Stiles’ arm.  Finally he says, “Good different, I think.  More powerful.” 

“I’m glad.”

But Scott doesn’t seem convinced – he shudders.  “But that’s bad, isn’t it?  Because—”  He trails off.

“No,” Stiles says, running a comforting hand over Scott’s back, skin on skin.  “It’s what you deserve, Scotty.  And one day you might even believe that.”

“Maybe.”

Once they’re finally clean, Stiles puts his wet clothes on and huddles beneath a giant pine tree for shelter, shivering against the chill of the night.  Scott, on the other hand, lets himself go like he hasn’t in weeks, crashing through the underbrush and growling as loud as he dares.  Every so often Stiles gets a glimpse of his fangs, gleaming in the meager light from the quarter-moon overhead, as he runs and frolics and slashes at the tree branches that get in his way.  He’s magnificent and dangerous and Stiles loves him so much.

Scott is free, even just for one night, and it’s everything Stiles wants for him.

_-_-_-_

 

The farther they go, the harder the terrain is to navigate.  Back home they could see for miles, huge expanses of flatland laid out before them, corn and wheat swaying in the wind with the occasional grove of trees interrupting the scenery.  Now, Stiles huffs and puffs as they trudge over rocky inclines and teeter on the edge of cliff faces.  Scott curls a tight fist into the back of Stiles’ shirt every time they near a giant drop-off.  Twenty years of watching Stiles fall on his face has made him understandably paranoid.

They don’t travel by road anymore.  It doesn’t feel right.

It’s as they’re stumbling down a mountainside that Scott stops in his tracks to tilt his head to the side, brow furrowing and nostrils flaring.  “I smell blood,” he says, casting his eyes around the unforgiving landscape.  “ _Lots_ of blood.”

“Human or animal?” Stiles wonders, shifting nervously.  The sun is starting to go down.

“Both.”

Deep in the valley, they find a kid with a bear trap clamped around his ankle, the metal teeth cutting cruelly into the meat of his calf.  He’s wolfed out and crying, eyes wide and gold and lips trembling around the sharpness of his fangs.  He can’t be more than thirteen years old.

The poor boy is nearly out of his mind with terror, so when Scott and Stiles rush over in concern, he scrambles backwards as much as the trap will allow, crying out in pain when the sudden movement digs the jaws deeper into his flesh.  “Stay back!” he shouts, voice shaking and full of tears.  “Please, just—don’t!  I haven’t hurt anyone, I promise!”

It breaks Stiles’ heart.  It must break Scott’s, too, because he collapses into the dirt like his legs can’t hold his body up any longer.  As he kneels before the scared boy, he lets his eyes bleed red and comforting, saying gently, “We’re here to help, okay?  You don’t need to be afraid.”

The boy stares at him in shock, shoulders slumping in relief.  “You’re—?”

“Yeah.”

But when Scott reaches for the spring levers, the boy quickly grows agitated again.  “Wait, don’t touch the—!” he cries, but he’s too late and Scott yelps in pain, pulling his hands back like he’s been burned.  The skin on his palms bubbles and turns a bright, angry red.  “It’s coated in silver, just—don’t touch it!”

Breathing harshly through his nose, Scott protectively tucks his injured hands against his chest.  “What the hell?”

“They do it so we can’t escape.”  The boy is crying again.  “So we can’t save each other.”

Stiles has kept his mouth shut until this point – he knows his place – but when Scott looks to him in anguish, he steps forward to crouch before the boy.  “What’s your name, kid?” he asks quietly, lump in his throat.

The boy rubs at his watery eyes.  “Alec.”

Stiles nods.  “I’m gonna get you out, Alec, but you’re gonna have to trust me.”

Once Alec nods his assent, Stiles grits his teeth and pushes down on the levers as hard as he can, which isn’t very hard considering he’s exhausted, hasn’t eaten anything but vegetables in weeks, and is a measly human.  But he’s able to open the jaws just wide enough for Alec to extract his twisted, bloody leg before his grip slips and the trap clamps shut with a sickening, metallic crunch.  Both he and Alec fall back into the dirt, panting for breath.

Scott immediately tends to Alec’s wounds, ignoring the burning of his hands to set the broken bone in the kid’s leg and draw the pain from his skin, blackness licking up his veins.  As he’s getting patched up, Alec watches Stiles with wide brown eyes, mouth opening and closing like he can’t figure out what to say.  Finally he decides on, “You’re human.”

It’s not a question.

“I am,” Stiles agrees, face going warm.  “And I’m sorry for your pain.”

“They killed my whole family,” Alec says, hanging his head.  His fingers twist together in his lap.  “About a week ago.  Even my mom…even my little sister.  I came home from school and they were all dead in the backyard.  They were shot up with wolfsbane.”

Next to Stiles, Scott whimpers but doesn’t say anything.  Stiles knows he’s thinking about Melissa.

Alec’s nose wrinkles.  “They say we’re animals,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as the angry wounds in his leg start visibly knitting themselves back together.  It doesn’t matter how many times Stiles witnesses supernatural healing, it still has him staring in awe.  It’s absolutely miraculous.  “Or monsters.  And it’s true, isn’t it?  No one should be able to do that.”  He gestures at his ankle.  There’s barely a scratch left.

“The world is full of monsters,” Stiles says thoughtfully, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees.  “But you aren’t one of them.”  When Alec looks like he’s going to protest, Stiles holds up a hand to cut him off.  “Was your little sister a monster?  Your _mother_?  Have _you_ ever killed anyone?”

Alec shakes his head wordlessly, eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“So what does that tell you?”

“Maybe _they’re_ the bad ones,” Alec says, eyes flicking up to Stiles’ face before he quickly looks away.  “Maybe it’s them.”

Scott nearly crushes Stiles’ fingers when he squeezes his hand.

Later, after Alec’s continued on his way and they’ve set up camp for the night, Scott gazes at Stiles from the other side of the fire.  “I know what you were doing,” he says, lower lip caught between his teeth.  “Earlier.  When you were talking to the kid.”

“And?”

“And I get it.”  Scott raises the corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile.  “It’s them.”

Stiles scuttles around the fire on his hands and knees to press an adamant kiss to Scott’s forehead.  The answering hands on Stiles’ hips make his stomach swoop.

_-_-_-_

 

Still five day’s journey from California and completely out of food, they decide they need a new plan.  The mountains are out because they take too long to traverse and the roads are out because Scott and Stiles have come to an unspoken agreement to avoid humans at all costs.  The blisters have healed up, but Scott keeps rubbing absently at his hands.

Which is why they’re currently huddled behind a large pine tree watching a train approach at nail-biting speed and wondering if they’re brave enough.

“Think we can do it?” Scott mumbles, eyes wide as they track the movement of the train.  It’s almost overtaken them.  “You know they put hobos in jail, right?”

“I think _you_ can do it,” Stiles says honestly, swiping his sweaty palms down his pants.  He’s nervous.  “I think _I’m_ gonna get squashed like a bug.”

“Maybe we should just—”

Scott never gets to finish because it’s at that moment that a blur of dirty linen and mussed up brown hair explodes from the underbrush behind them and races for the train like hell is after her.  The girl shouts, “Follow me!” before leaping into an open boxcar with unnatural – or possibly _super_ natural – grace, landing amongst the wooden crates with ease.  Then she’s hanging out the doorway, reaching toward them with an open palm.  “Grab my hand!”

They obey.

Scott beats Stiles to the train by yards upon yards, letting the girl pull him inside without hesitation.  Stiles’ heart is in his throat as he struggles to catch up, terrified of missing his one and only chance.  Just when he’s debating giving it up for a loss – the girl’s hand is getting farther away, not closer – Scott’s face appears next to the girl’s, eyebrows crinkled with apprehension.  “Just a bit faster, Stiles!” he calls.  “A bit faster and we’ll pull you in.  I _promise_.”

But Stiles can’t _go_ any faster.  That is, until Scott’s eyes light up red and bright, sending a wave of sheer power shooting through Stiles’ body.  When he pulls up parallel with the open door, they haul him inside just like Scott promised.  Stiles collapses on the floor of the boxcar, lungs hitching as he pants for breath.

When the girl approaches him curiously, eyes glowing blue as she sniffs at him, Stiles is back on his feet in an instant.  Because he knows what blue is.  Blue is the color of cold-blooded killers and Stiles reeks of humanity, of enmity.

But rather than tear him apart, the girl just gives him a onceover, shrugs, and flops down on one of the crates.  “So, where are you guys headed?” she asks and that is that.

They don’t know it at the time, but when the train pulls into a fairly sizable California city, Malia won’t leave.  She’ll stay.  She’ll stay through hell and high water and blood-spattered basement floors, and Stiles will learn that not all killers are cold-blooded.  And, months down the line when he just can’t stand it anymore, he’ll ask from his perch on the soft, silky bedspread, “Why didn’t you say anything that day on the train?  About me being human?  I know you could tell.”

“Because you smelled like Scott,” she’ll say as she swipes a wet towel over Scott’s bloodstained ear.  “And that was good enough for me.”

It’ll be good enough for Stiles, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The tumblr post for this work is [here](http://arolou.tumblr.com/post/180207799018/outlast-the-ignorance-pairing-scottstiles) so if you'd consider giving it a reblog, I'd really appreciate it :)


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